Deidara's Art
by Satiah
Summary: Anger. Passion. Fury. It was these three emotions which gave life to true art. Eternity could never hold such beauty.


Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

...

Deidara knew art - he was staring right at it. He had to; otherwise he would miss it. Art was fleeting, you see, and if he didn't look directly at it, he missed it. So, Deidara was staring directly into the face of what he called 'art', trying his best to not so much as blink.

Fleeting.

Passion.

Heat.

Fire.

Destruction.

Emotion.

Anger.

Yes, this was the definition of art to Deidara. It was always fleeting; never permanent. Never. And when something was fleeting, it was beautiful in nature, passionate even, as it lived out its too-short existence to the best of its ability before succumbing to the infinite loss of eternity. The passion in a work of art was incredibly powerful if executed just right. (Especially when your art was an explosion.)

Bursting - if you would excuse the pun - with beauty, form, and life. Yes, Deidara loved explosions. Their intense, scorching heat was just as beautiful as the initial blast: a second part to the original canvas painting of destruction, just in the form of invisible waves. Then the fire came, the third stage, sweeping across the land as far as his blue-blue eye could see. Burning, raging, consuming, glorious fire; purging the earth of everything in its path, leaving only the blackened shadows of what once was.

This pitiful end result was not _art_. No, no, no. Art was in the fire: the destruction as it was taking place, the moment when things were ablaze in the blistering heat - that was when his heart soared and his life felt complete. The aftermath was of no consequence to him - it was over and done. Let someone else worry about something so trivial as broken, burned objects that had no life - no soul, no existence - left within them. Their purpose had already been served.

The emotion, the passion, the _everything worthwhile!_ was contained in the instant of the explosion itself and the two stages immediately following the glorious impact: Heat and Fire. He could feel the emotion within every explosion, the anger held tightly inside it. What beauty. Wasn't it emotion which gave meaning to art, infusing it with purpose, life? The best works were filled with a reflection of the artist's own passion. But bombs took that which was given and created an emotion of their own. Their white-hot anger and fury unleashed upon impact, expressing such a massive display of rage unbeknownst to the world beneath it. Yes; bombs were angry. Could a man look into the inner chaos of a fiery inferno and perceive glee? Or even sadness? No. He saw anger in its most basic form, welling to the surface, mushrooming toward the flawlessly blue sky. Anger - and lots of it. Such was beauty; such was art; such was the world of Deidara. And, yes, Deidara _knew_ art. He was staring right at it.

The roiling anger. The uncontrollable passion. The blinding intensity. The perfect explosion. It was all there - right there. Right in front of him. Glaring, even, as the fury died down - as the destruction passed. Now was the deathly Calm: that witch followed after the Fire. Nothing moved. No sound escaped Deidara's parted lips. The heavy silence pressed against his ears; he listened to the pounding of his heart in his head. It was the only noise he could hear, growing louder now, bigger and fuller, _oh so very strong_…it was deafeningly hard to listen to. His head hurt from the pressure. His ears rang. His lungs were hot and dry; it was difficult to breathe. There was no relief from the oppressive silence, and it pushed him to his knees. Yes, _this was art_. Something so powerful it could move you, even when was all said and done. Art made him weak - weak and attentive every single time.

A forced exhalation broke the silence.

The ringing in his ears became less intense, less painful. The blood ceased its mad rush to his head, relieving the pressure built inside his skull. His senses returned to him. He was again aware of his surroundings (slowly they came into focus, so very slowly), not just the explosion which had captured his entire being just moments before. Yes, there was sound. Birds in the distance, chirping, chirping. A loud thumping sound above his head. A yell. A sob.

His quiet sob.

He was crying; he just realized as the tears fell from his smiling face. Art was powerful indeed. And he was staring right at it.

...

Relationships were an art form of their own.

Creating even the most tenuous of workable partnerships with Sasori-danna certainly qualified for getting him noticed by the most esteemed of critics. (Deidara ought to be exalted on a pedestal for the amount of effort it took.)

Those cold, normally expressionless puppeteering eyes were filled today with anger. A fury unleashed which hadn't yet dissolved. It was still smoldering, waiting to catch the wind and once again erupt into an uncontrollable blaze.

The fierce anger, the deadly passion - it was still there. Behind that intense glassy gaze. Behind the lines of the glare. Oh, how the outpouring of emotion held Deidara still. Such was art as only Danna could create: exactly like that of an explosion.

(_This_ was why he respected him. Because even if Sasori-danna didn't _get_ art, couldn't create_ true _artwork with his own two hands - he could still mirror that timeless fury, that cold hatred so unique to the innards of an explosion. So quick, so beautiful: fiery emotions.)

Fleeting. His wrath came forth in bursts; never a continuous stream.

Passionate glares, from deep within his soul; so angry.

Heated words meant to burn.

Verbal fire.

Destruction.

Anger.

Deidara wasn't actually listening to the words themselves, and had no idea why he was once again on the receiving end of Sasori-danna's wrath. He could only think he must have touched a puppet or something earlier. He couldn't remember. It was always the trivial things which set Sasori off. Just a little spark could light the fuse, quickly leading the way to his temper - a blow-up roughly equivalent to thirty tons of dynamite. Yes, Sasori-danna could explode in a person's face, un. And he could do it in a big, loud way.

But within his fury was that living art. Fleeting, as the explosive anger itself only lasted a few minutes - the rest was spent smoldering like embers from the remnants of a razed village. Deidara never knew what is was they fought about. He was more interested in the fleeting fire brought to life in the first instant of anger. _The art._ It took hold of his entire being - silenced him to his soul. (And Danna could get angry like this every time.)

Deidara never actually heard them, those burning words. Just the roar of the unconstrained explosion, too much force assaulting his senses at one time. But the emotion of the moment - an engulfing sensation so incredibly powerful - thundered in his head and sapped his strength like a true explosion. Sasori, of course, would never be able to understand. He would stand there triumphantly, as he always did when he "won". Smug. Little. Uncultured.

Maybe this time Deidara would remember to leave his tools _the hell alone_? Maybe he would remember they were absolutely ruined after being used to shape clay? Or that they were hard to come by and even harder to make? (Sasori sighed. It looked like he'd have to carve the damn things all over again. Thanks to Deidara's idiocy, Sasori had a new set of tools every month or so. And Deidara never listened. Never learned. Never.)

But Sasori-danna would never understand. He stood there triumphantly, as he always did when he won: smug, angry, and small. No, someone such as he could never understand. The rush. The weightlessness. The staring blankly, unable to process more than the_ feel of the blast_. Soaking it all in, a total awareness that eclipsed the ordinary. Unnatural stillness. The empty and breathless feeling that took hold of his body once the intense rush was over...

None of it was from pain. None of it was regret.

It was from the intense, agonizingly powerful emotion of -

_Joy_.


End file.
